


Reach

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 20:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15323850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Erestor has so much to do, But Glorfindel has a few things to say.





	Reach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ulan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulan/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for Glorfindel-of-imladris’ “Glorfindel/Erestor? Something sweet, maybe one of them with a long-time crush on the other?” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). (Thanks for the feels inspiration, Prince Lir.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The kitchens are in a state of near panic when Erestor enters them, and he leaves them little better—his own mood is too sharp to ease anyone down. He delivers a slew of new instructions, corrects no less than six mistakes, and hurries back towards his office with a jumble of orders tucked under his arm. He finds his normally immaculate office in appalling shape—his desk is a mess of parchment, and the books on his shelf are disturbingly uneven. His carpet’s slightly askew, but there’s no time to straighten it.

King Thranduil’s visits _always_ create a havoc. Beforehand, it’s an anxious rush to comply with all of his party’s absurd requests and to make sure that Imladris isn’t judged too harshly. When he goes, there will be no rest for the weary—Erestor will have to have cleaning crews working through the night for several days. Add to that that they have four separate visitors from varyingly unimportant places that will need to be discreetly hidden away or thoroughly briefed on royal Elven protocol, and Erestor is just about ready to scream. Except he never screams. He gets through his long days with grit together teeth and far too little sleep. He always has, and he always will.

Erestor’s bent over his desk when Glorfindel slips into his office. He only spares a quick look to check, then returns to his work without so much as a grunt of greeting—as one of his few and closest friends, Glorfindel should know better than anyone not to take it personally. It should be easy enough to see that Erestor has no time for Glorfindel’s idle talks or constant dinner invitations. He’ll go without food if he has to. He finally finds last month’s culinary order from Bree and checks it against the kitchen’s inventory. Sure enough, they were shorted several items.

“Erestor?”

“I haven’t the time,” Erestor answers. It doesn’t matter what he doesn’t have time _for_ , because he doesn’t have time for anything. He’s surprised Glorfindel even bothered to ask: it should be obvious. 

Glorfindel doesn’t budge. He stops an arm’s length away—Erestor can see the familiar, polished black boots in his peripherals. “It is about tonight’s banquet.”

 _That_ has Erestor looking up. It’s very rare that Glorfindel comes to him as a _lord_ seeking a servant, but they are just that: Erestor’s duty is to run Lord Elrond’s house, and if Lord Glorfindel has something official to add, it’s Erestor’s duty to accommodate. A thin smile touches Glorfindel’s handsome face when he’s finally given Erestor’s attention. He relays, “I would like to know if there is any room for another entertainer in tonight’s program.”

Erestor lifts a brow, which prompts Glorfindel to clarify, “A minstrel, I mean. I wish to perform a song.” Erestor lifts the other brow.

When Glorfindel neither corrects himself nor laughs at his own joke, Erestor returns to his lists. He has no time for Glorfindel’s cavalier whims. Though he would still be obliged to include Glorfindel in the program if the issue were forced, Erestor tries to dissuade him. “Forgive me, but I have already arranged for the best we have, and you have no more skill with the harp than any other elf.” He doesn’t look back to see how Glorfindel handles his comment. He doesn’t have the time for niceties.

“I have been practicing,” Glorfindel presses, only the barest hint of dejection in his voice. “I would appreciate the opportunity to try.”

Trying on the night of King Thranduil’s arrival will only earn Imladris more of the Woodland Realm’s smug judgment. Erestor releases a withered sigh. He glances over to see a look of mild hurt on Glorfindel’s gorgeous features. 

Glorfindel asks quietly, strangely piteously, “Have you truly so little faith in me? It will not prove as poor as my poetry attempt last month, if that is what you fear.”

Erestor blinks. He doesn’t see the correlation. “Your poetry was not poor.”

Glorfindel frowns and says, “You did not react.”

“I had much to do, then.” If he recalls correctly, it was during another of Mithrandir’s visits—always trouble. He rolls up the order and inventory lists together, making a mental note to have someone run them down to the kitchens and plan for appropriate substitutions. Then he pulls the half-unfurled map of the eastern wing down—he still has to arrange sleeping quarters for the Woodland Realm’s extensive party. When he realizes Glorfindel’s still standing there, he adds offhandedly, “And I have much to do now; we will have to speak of this another time. At the moment, I cannot be distracted by friendship.”

“Friendship,” Glorfindel bitterly repeats. Something about it makes Erestor pause. He spares Glorfindel another look, now more curious than harried, and Glorfindel sighs.

He asks, to Erestor’s great surprise, “What can I do to impress you?”

For a minute, Erestor is too stunned to answer. It takes another minute to manage, “Impress me?”

“Yes.” Glorfindel’s fair features have furrowed in determination, far more serious than his usual carefree visage. There’s even a waver, a strain in his voice when he continues, “I work harder than any guard to protect you and Imladris: I have killed orcs and wargs and even trolls. But I know that you are not a violent creature and you care little for the workings of a sword, so I have done my utmost to present myself to your high standards, to always dress well and behave properly. I uphold the honour of my title more than I ever have. I know that is not enough, and so I have practiced the arts—I have painted, written poems, and I would sing the words in my heart if I could, but still it does not garner your attention. My name is sung in songs; I slew a Balrog and saved all that I could, and I even earned salvation from the Valar themselves, and yet I cannot seem to impress the one person I would worship. So I ask you now, Erestor, to take pity on me. Tell me what I must do. For I will do it.” 

Erestor doesn’t understand. He prides himself on his foresight, on his thoughtfulness, and he isn’t used to being so completely and thoroughly _shocked_ , but this has done it. Glorfindel shouldn’t need to work to impress anyone—he’s powerful, and as kind as he is handsome. Most still speak his name with reverence, and Erestor knows a fair number of his staff would swoon for a moment of the fabled Balrog Slayer’s time. It reminds Erestor sharply of just how much he takes for granted with their closeness.

Eventually, he mutters, “I do not know what to say.”

Glorfindel moves forward. His hand slips over Erestor’s, fingers weaving through his, thumb lightly caressing his palm. Glorfindel’s skin is as soft and warm as it’s always been. It’s no wonder that many think him a Maia.

He asks Erestor with heartbreaking earnestness, “Say that I may play tonight and have another chance to win your heart.” When Erestor opens his mouth, Glorfindel hastily adds, “I know that it will not be easily won, but I ask only for a chance to try. I have been trying for so long now that I do not know what else to do.”

Erestor can’t believe that. He lets himself _feel_ Glorfindel’s hand in his, and he looks into Glorfindel’s clear blue eyes. He doesn’t dare ask _how long_ Glorfindel’s felt that way. It can’t be since their first meeting, so long ago.

Because when they first met, _Erestor_ was smitten. Back then, he had been every bit as stoic and strict as he is now, but Glorfindel’s arrival had shattered him like a cold wind, and for a fleeting time, he’d grown lax in his duties, too distracted with a beauty he’d never known before. Back then, he would have done anything to be Glorfindel’s. 

But he had known that nothing he could do would be enough. He accepted that he couldn’t hope to have the fabled lord of old be only his, and so he had shut down that destructive desire. He had eased into the simple friendship Glorfindel had offered him, and he was content.

He wouldn’t have been if he had all the information he does now. He thinks of putting Glorfindel on the set list. He has a sudden, burning urge to hear Glorfindel’s song. Then he remembers the last time King Thranduil found Imladris’ entertainment ‘dreadfully inadequate,’ and complained to Lord Elrond for two days straight.

Erestor has always been loyal to his duties. He tells Glorfindel, “I will not be bought with songs.” Glorfindel’s face falls, but Erestor finishes. “I may, however, have the time to accept a dance later in the evening, if my duties have slowed enough to allow it.”

The smile that stretches across Glorfindel’s face has Erestor’s chest clenching. Glorfindel lightly squeezes his hand, warming him to his core. He still can’t believe that such a wondrous creature has tried so hard to impress _him_.

Glorfindel parts his lips, fails to say anything once, then manages a light, “Thank you,” almost full of joyous laughter. He bows, though Erestor is, technically, far beneath his station. Then he turns to go.

Momentarily forgetting all his work, Erestor asks, “Where are you going?” He thought they would have far more to discuss. But Glorfindel does laugh, like pleasant-sounding bells.

“I am going to practice, my dear Erestor, for tonight, I plan to sweep you off your feet.”

With a winning smile, Glorfindel disappears, and Erestor’s office door swings quietly shut. Erestor is left alone. It’s just as well—he can feel the dark flush in his cheeks.

He returns to his desk with a vengeance, determined to earn a sizeable break for the night ahead.


End file.
